Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Booty-call Brian
See precursor to this post.
One day during my freshman year of high school, a slightly older female student approached me. “Do you see that guy over there?” She pointed across the hall to a fairly attractive looking guy who then waved.
“Yeah,” I answered with a lilt of curiosity to my voice.
“Well, he wants you to wrap your legs around his face.” A hit of adrenaline started coursing through my veins. His crudeness was shocking. I quickly turned away from him, but something about his boldness made me smile a little.
“You’re so bad.” -mom
He began approaching me directly. He would look at my legs the entire time he was speaking to me. Since I never told him my name, he called me “legs” and “Madonna” interchangeably. I was offended by his vulgarity, although I didn’t yet understand the concept of objectification. Yet at the same time, I found his attention flattering in my adolescent naivety.
We eventually started chatting on the phone. Of course, all he wanted to talk about was sex. He asked if I was a virgin. This is when I started to understand the whore/virgin trap. I refused to answer, because I didn’t want to be either.
The day arrived when my curiosity and my desire to “get it over with” got the best of me. Brian (by this time, we were on a first name basis) and I skipped class and went out into the woods behind our school, and wham, bam, it was over with. As I laid there on the forest floor, Brian moving above me, I thought, “I don’t get it. What is all the hype about? Sex doesn’t seem all that exciting to me.”
“You’re a disgusting slut! How could you?!” - mom
I bled for twenty-four hours afterward. Luckily I had a good friend, Tanya, from my neighborhood whom I could talk to. I went over to her house immediately after school and cried for hours. The disappointment of the experience only amplified the inevitable guilt.
I had dance class that night. I’d taken dance since I was four years old. In the middle of class that night, I went to the bathroom and almost fainted when I saw that I’d urinated blood.
“Your hair looks awful like that. Why do you do that to your hair?” - mom
I had sex with Brian off and on for the following two or three years. He would approach me every month or so in the hall at school or just drop by my parents’ house while they were at work.
Brian was adventuresome. Despite my consistently turning his ideas down out of prudishness, he continued to make more requests.
Brian: How about I shave your pussy?
ME: Uh, no. I wouldn’t trust you with a razor to save my life!
Brian: How about I give you a “pearl necklace?”
ME: A what? Uh, no.
Brian: How about if someone joins us this afternoon?
ME (hoping it’s a girl he has in mind): Who?
Brian: My best friend Dave.
ME: Hell, no! He is SO not cute.
Brian: How about trying anal sex?
ME: You want to put something where? Hell, no.
Having lived a very sheltered life before Brian, I was always shocked by his requests. His sense of adventure, however, would open up my fantasy world; I would explore most of these options later with other lovers. And those few options I have yet to try, I’ve certainly fantasized about.
The sex was fun, but not fantastic. Afterwards he would ask me if I’d cum. I’d lie and say, “yes.” I’d never had an orgasm in my life (yet) and wasn’t honestly sure. But when he pressed further and asked “How many?” I knew I was lying when I’d say, “two or three.” Who was I trying to protect – him or me? But I never faked an orgasm. I never felt the need to fake one – though with future lovers I would learn this method as a means of ending bad sex.
Despite the two to three year duration of our affair, Brian and I simply never connected emotionally.
7/28/87
Brian came over yesterday. I made him lunch. We watched a movie. It was nice. He asked me to spend the night with him because his friend was out of town and he had his house. I said no. After awhile, he left. I saw him that night at Pom practice and he acted like I was nobody he cared about. It hurt.
We had developed a comfort level with one another. But for me, part of the comfort was in that I wasn’t in love with him. I never liked him enough to pursue a more serious relationship with him than the physical one that we had. But I wanted him to want from me the one thing that I didn’t want from him. And I guess that is the exact place we are in right now. I want him to want to be my friend, even though I don’t want to be his.
We have nothing in common; we never have, except for a love of sex. And I certainly get helluh better sex with my super hot girlfriend than I ever got with him.
So, why then, after hearing a nearly unanimous vote NOT to respond to his email, why pray tell me, did I respond via email with this brief note:
“I am not much of a phone person. What did you want to talk about?”
Stay tuned for the next installation of Booty-call Brian.
One day during my freshman year of high school, a slightly older female student approached me. “Do you see that guy over there?” She pointed across the hall to a fairly attractive looking guy who then waved.
“Yeah,” I answered with a lilt of curiosity to my voice.
“Well, he wants you to wrap your legs around his face.” A hit of adrenaline started coursing through my veins. His crudeness was shocking. I quickly turned away from him, but something about his boldness made me smile a little.
“You’re so bad.” -mom
He began approaching me directly. He would look at my legs the entire time he was speaking to me. Since I never told him my name, he called me “legs” and “Madonna” interchangeably. I was offended by his vulgarity, although I didn’t yet understand the concept of objectification. Yet at the same time, I found his attention flattering in my adolescent naivety.
We eventually started chatting on the phone. Of course, all he wanted to talk about was sex. He asked if I was a virgin. This is when I started to understand the whore/virgin trap. I refused to answer, because I didn’t want to be either.
The day arrived when my curiosity and my desire to “get it over with” got the best of me. Brian (by this time, we were on a first name basis) and I skipped class and went out into the woods behind our school, and wham, bam, it was over with. As I laid there on the forest floor, Brian moving above me, I thought, “I don’t get it. What is all the hype about? Sex doesn’t seem all that exciting to me.”
“You’re a disgusting slut! How could you?!” - mom
I bled for twenty-four hours afterward. Luckily I had a good friend, Tanya, from my neighborhood whom I could talk to. I went over to her house immediately after school and cried for hours. The disappointment of the experience only amplified the inevitable guilt.
I had dance class that night. I’d taken dance since I was four years old. In the middle of class that night, I went to the bathroom and almost fainted when I saw that I’d urinated blood.
“Your hair looks awful like that. Why do you do that to your hair?” - mom
I had sex with Brian off and on for the following two or three years. He would approach me every month or so in the hall at school or just drop by my parents’ house while they were at work.
Brian was adventuresome. Despite my consistently turning his ideas down out of prudishness, he continued to make more requests.
Brian: How about I shave your pussy?
ME: Uh, no. I wouldn’t trust you with a razor to save my life!
Brian: How about I give you a “pearl necklace?”
ME: A what? Uh, no.
Brian: How about if someone joins us this afternoon?
ME (hoping it’s a girl he has in mind): Who?
Brian: My best friend Dave.
ME: Hell, no! He is SO not cute.
Brian: How about trying anal sex?
ME: You want to put something where? Hell, no.
Having lived a very sheltered life before Brian, I was always shocked by his requests. His sense of adventure, however, would open up my fantasy world; I would explore most of these options later with other lovers. And those few options I have yet to try, I’ve certainly fantasized about.
The sex was fun, but not fantastic. Afterwards he would ask me if I’d cum. I’d lie and say, “yes.” I’d never had an orgasm in my life (yet) and wasn’t honestly sure. But when he pressed further and asked “How many?” I knew I was lying when I’d say, “two or three.” Who was I trying to protect – him or me? But I never faked an orgasm. I never felt the need to fake one – though with future lovers I would learn this method as a means of ending bad sex.
Despite the two to three year duration of our affair, Brian and I simply never connected emotionally.
7/28/87
Brian came over yesterday. I made him lunch. We watched a movie. It was nice. He asked me to spend the night with him because his friend was out of town and he had his house. I said no. After awhile, he left. I saw him that night at Pom practice and he acted like I was nobody he cared about. It hurt.
We had developed a comfort level with one another. But for me, part of the comfort was in that I wasn’t in love with him. I never liked him enough to pursue a more serious relationship with him than the physical one that we had. But I wanted him to want from me the one thing that I didn’t want from him. And I guess that is the exact place we are in right now. I want him to want to be my friend, even though I don’t want to be his.
We have nothing in common; we never have, except for a love of sex. And I certainly get helluh better sex with my super hot girlfriend than I ever got with him.
So, why then, after hearing a nearly unanimous vote NOT to respond to his email, why pray tell me, did I respond via email with this brief note:
“I am not much of a phone person. What did you want to talk about?”
Stay tuned for the next installation of Booty-call Brian.
Comments:
My relationship with C is such that the question seems surprising to me, but I don't mind your asking. C occasionally reads my blog. I usually tell her what I've blogged about even when she doesn't read it. I'd written a first draft of this post in an autobiography I'd written for a coarse in college. C read that first version. And C knows that Brian has contacted me. I am *not* interested in Brian in the least. I think I emailed him because in the prior post Debra said it might be entertaining so long as I didn't give him my phone number and Mari said I should give him a chance to explain himself in case this could be an oppotunity to resolve our past. Though admittedly resolution will have to come from within in this case, as Brian and I clearly have no foundation on which to have any type of serious conversation with one another. And honestly, I'm not sure in his case I know what needs to be resolved. The past is the past. I was a curious teenager, exploring my sexuality, with a nasty mother in the background driving me further along in a path I would eventually realize was unfulfilling. I am not looking for another booty-call from Brian if that is the impression I left. I think I wrote this post as a means of acknowledging my own role in my prior history with Brian. To stop placing an unfair portion of "blame" on him. And to come to a more neutral place where I won't react as strongly to getting an email from an old lover. ;-) Part of what bothered me to hear from him was the anger and guilt thoughts of him bring up. I've often found writing to be an effective means of ridding myself of the past. Probably comes from the confessional nature of having been raised Catholic (though I no longer embrace that religion). So... with regards to C... she knows me all too well. And whether or not she reads this post, nothing in it would come as a surprise to her.
I'm curious to hear what happens. It is interesting that he wants to talk to you. It seems necessary to talk to him in order to finish the story.
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